


Sittin' in a Tree

by gutsforgarters



Series: Shovel Verse [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alexandria Safe-Zone (Walking Dead), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beth Greene Lives, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Kiss, Older Man/Younger Woman, literal tree sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters
Summary: The crossbow he found while he was out on a run with Aaron is smaller than the one he uses, more lightweight, and it's a good size for Beth, who’s a fuck of a lot stronger than she looks, anyway. Girl’s definitely got the upper body strength for bowhunting, is what he’s saying.Not that he’s been paying any particular amount of attention to her biceps or anything, okay, fuck off.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Series: Shovel Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1475414
Comments: 19
Kudos: 123





	Sittin' in a Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if anyone remembers [The Shovel Talk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353000), but here's the sequel I promised I'd write. Better late than never.

If Daryl had a quarter for every time he wanted to turn tail and fucking _run_ from the way Beth Greene makes him feel, he’d…have a fuckton of useless quarters, actually, ’cause it ain’t like money’s worth shit in a world without the gold standard. ’Least you can turn shit into fertilizer.

Huh. Now that he thinks about it, maybe they oughta try collecting loose change and melting it down into something useful. Quarters minted before 1965 were made out of silver, right? Daryl ain’t no blacksmith or nothing, but if he gathered enough of those and scavenged the right tools, he could try his hand at smelting something nice for Beth, like a new bracelet, or maybe even a ring—

 _Nope_. He balks before he can finish that thought, shaking his head like a dog trying to get water out of its ears. He and Beth’ve only been…hanging out…for about a week now. Jewelry’s a _step_ , alright, a big one, and he’s not about to go shoving a ring onto Beth’s unsuspecting finger when he ain’t even worked up the nerve to kiss her yet, for Christ’s sake.

If she even _wants_ him to kiss her, that is. She might return some small measure of his feelings for her, but that don’t mean she wants him slobbering all over her like a hungry mutt. Girl can probably tell just from looking at him that he wouldn’t be no good at that shit. Nah. They’d both be better off if he kept his lips to himself.

Fuck, that’s the third—fourth? He’s lost count—tangent he’s gone off on since he went looking for Beth. He swears he used to be better at focusing than this—still is, so long as Beth’s not involved in any way, shape, or form—and he thinks it might be some kinda fucked-up coping mechanism, a way of distancing himself from whatever Beth-induced anxiety attack that’s currently got him clamped between its jaws. And how fucking pathetic is it that he’s already spinning out when he ain’t even spoken to her yet?

Might not even get to speak to her at all, actually, which is at once a crushing disappointment and an abject fucking relief, ’cause Beth’s sitting on Glenn and Maggie’s front porch, and she ain’t alone. She’s curled up in one of them fucking mass-produced rocking chairs, the kind that start to fall apart after, like, three years of regular use, and Lil’ Asskicker’s taking up prime real estate space in her lap. If it were just Beth and the baby, Daryl could probably deal, but Carl’s there, too, all sprawled out in the other shitty rocking chair, and Daryl would sooner eat a walker’s liver than trip all over his own tongue in front of a fucking teenager.

Beth’s deep in conversation with Carl, so she hasn’t noticed Daryl yet. It’s an out, and one he’s giving some serious consideration to taking. The inclination to avoid uncomfortable social situations is the older of the two impulses he’s caught between, but the pull Beth has on him, while much newer, ain’t no slouch, neither. Before things can fall one way or the other, though, Carl happens to glance over Beth’s shoulder, and then _shit, fuck_ , Daryl’s mind is made up for him because the damn kid’s lifting a hand to wave.

When Beth turns around to see who Carl’s waving at, her face splits into a grin that could put the sun overhead to shame, and she looks that way ’cause of _Daryl_. ’Cause seeing him makes her _happy_ for reasons he’s long past given up on trying to understand.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks again, ’cause there ain’t no going back now, and he ain’t even as pissed off about it as he oughta be.

Daryl doesn’t wave back, ’cause his hands are full, and ’cause he ain’t never been much for waving, anyhow. Nah, he just unsticks his feet from the well-kept sidewalk and shambles his sorry carcass farther down the street and up the porch’s short flight of stairs, biting back an ornery growl when Carl fucking _smirks_ at him. He spares a moment of nostalgia for the days when the kid was too scared of him to so much as breathe too loudly in his vicinity, then allows the magnets that apparently live in his eyeballs to drag his attention back to Beth.

“Hey,” she says, smile brightening as she shifts the baby around in her lap. Judy’s been getting big, so Beth’s legs might be going numb, depending on how long she’s been sitting with her like this. “Whatcha got there?”

Daryl looks from Beth to the crossbow in his arms and back again. “A fuckin’ washing machine. You got eyes, girl, Jesus.”

Carl snickers, and Beth rolls her eyes like she’s trying to prove she knows she’s got them, but she’s still sorta smiling because—again, for whatever reason, fuck if he knows—she thinks Daryl’s funny even when he’s kind of being an asshole.

“Yeah, okay, stupid question. I guess I was just tryin’ to ask what you needed a new one for. Your old bow been givin’ you trouble?”

Jesus Christ, but this’d be a helluva lot easier—or at least moderately less painful—if they didn’t have a fucking peanut gallery on their hands. Still, now that Beth’s asked him straight out, he ain’t got no choice but to fucking answer, does he?

“Nah.” He ducks his head, feels the afternoon sun beating down on the crown of his skull and hopes to God or Whoever that Beth’ll attribute the sweat forming on his skin to the heat instead of nerves. “Found it when I was out on a run with Aaron. Figured you might…shit, I dunno. Want it.”

He glances up just in time to catch the smile sliding off of Beth’s face. She’s just _staring_ at him now, and, fuck, he wishes she wouldn’t do that; shit makes him want to crawl outta his own skin. Also kind of makes him want to do whatever he can to _keep_ her looking at him, which is just fucking _insane_.

And, listen. Beth was getting pretty good with his crossbow up till everything went to shit. She wasn’t no prodigy or nothing, and, yeah, she fucked up as often as she got it right, but she was a fast learner and she paid the fuck attention, and that was all Daryl could ask for, really.

And the crossbow he found while he was out with Aaron, the one he’s holding right now like it’s as good as a silver ring smelted from old quarters—it’s smaller than the one he uses, more lightweight. It’s a good size for Beth, who’s a fuck of a lot stronger than she looks, anyway. Girl’s definitely got the upper body strength for bowhunting, is what he’s saying.

Not that he’s been paying any particular amount of attention to her biceps or anything, okay, fuck off.

“Hey, so.”

Daryl startles like a buck at the snap of a twig and finally tears his eyes away from Beth to scowl at their pint-sized third wheel, who’s gotten up from his seat. He takes Judith from Beth before she can protest and settles the baby on his hip, then gives Daryl a significant look like he’s trying to silently communicate something of deathly importance.

If only Daryl could figure out what in the fuck that is.

“I better go get Judith something to eat before she starts fussing,” Carl goes on, and he’s already edging toward the steps like he’s afraid somebody’ll grab him and tie him to a rocking chair if he doesn’t move fast enough. “You guys can drop by for lunch if you want. Or, y’know, not. Seeya.”

Carl skips the last two steps—Daryl winces, but Judith doesn’t seem any worse for the wear, giggling like she got a thrill out of the jolt—and heads off toward Rick’s house at a pace that’s just short of a jog. And Daryl would _swear_ that the kid throws him a thumbs up over his shoulder, which. What. The fuck.

“So, uh.” Beth gets out of her chair and comes up beside Daryl to watch Carl’s retreat. The chair he just vacated’s still rocking a little. “What the heck was that all about?”

And, yeah. Did Daryl say that he wished Carl would get the fuck gone? He takes it back, because he could really use the buffer right about now.

“Kid prob’ly thinks he’s bein’ smooth,” Daryl mumbles, nails skittering restlessly across the bow’s stock. Beth giggles, and his ears heat up so fast and so fierce they feel almost sunburned.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Beth’s hand lands on his wrist, like she’d be holding his if it wasn’t wrapped around a crossbow. “So, are you gonna teach me how to use that thing, Mr. Dixon? Think I might be a little rusty.”

Daryl tries not to let the rush of relief he feels show on his face. So the present he picked out for her—because that’s what it is, dammit; no use denying it—isn’t unwelcome. That’s something.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at her sidelong. Thinks he might even be smiling a little, too, ’cause hell if her happiness ain’t infectious. “Guess ya prob’ly are. You, uh. You wanna head out now, or—?”

Beth’s hand slides up his arm—Christ, that feels better than it has any right to—and curls in his frayed sleeve. Her smile’s gotten smaller, more private, but it’s no less sweet than it was.

“Sure,” she says, quieter now, private like her smile. “You got a place in mind?”

Call him overprotective—and he thinks he’s got the fucking right to be after losing her the first time—but he doesn’t wanna risk Beth’s hide just so she can practice firing a crossbow. But he also wants to challenge her, ’cause she won’t get any better at defending herself if he doesn’t.

“Yeah.” He hands her the crossbow, and she accepts its weight with a fair amount of ease, like it ain’t been months since she picked one up. That’s his girl. “Think I do.”

* * *

The bolt Beth just fired skitters across the walker’s cheekbone and bounces harmlessly off its ear, and she lowers her new crossbow with a sigh.

“Dang it.”

“S’alright.” Daryl adjusts his hold on his own crossbow and shifts his weight, careful not to lean too far to the left or right lest he go tumbling off the branch he and Beth are straddling and right into the walker’s gnashing teeth. “Just give it a minute an’ try again. You go gettin’ frustrated, it’ll only mess you up worse.”

Beth nods, tucking a loose chunk of hair behind her ear—Daryl’s fingers’ve been twitching to do it for her ever since he noticed that it’d come loose from her ponytail, but he couldn’t work up the nerve and now it’s too damn late anyway. But she’s smiling kinda wryly now, and wondering why the hell she’s looking at him like that is enough to distract him from his frustration with his own sorry self, at least.

“What?” he grumbles, ’cause she still ain’t said nothing and it’s starting to get on his nerves.

Her crooked little smile breaks into a full-on grin when he asks her that, and now he’s wishing that he’d decided to conduct this lesson on the ground, after all, because then Beth’d be too busy keeping an eye out for walkers to look at him like that.

“Nothin’,” she says, except she knows he knows that’s bullshit, so she almost immediately amends, “It’s just—you’re a really good teacher, y’know? I thought so before, too.”

 _Before_. Before he lost her, is what she means, except she probably doesn’t think of it in a way that puts any kinda blame on him, even though he’s gonna be blaming _himself_ for the rest of his natural life.

But, yeah. Before. Before those fucking _cops_ took her and put those scars on her pretty face. Before he admitted to himself that, somewhere down the road, he’d gone and fallen in love with her, because how could he fucking _not_?

Daryl looks away from her and toward the ground, but it’s still just the one geek, all worked up from Beth’s three successive misfires. Damn. Where’s a herd when you need one?

“Don’t need to sound so surprised, damn,” he humbles, and doesn’t even have the heart to shush her when she lets loose a peal of church-bell laughter. They’re safe enough up here, anyway, and like he said, he actually wouldn’t mind it that much if a herd happened to pass through and temporarily take his mind off the way his heart jumps whenever Beth smiles at him.

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding the least damn bit sorry at all. “And I’m not all that surprised. Not really. You’re a lot sweeter than you look, Mr. Dixon.”

Blood rushes to his head so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t get dizzy and fall over the side of this branch for real. It’s the sturdiest one he could find, but that won’t do shit to save him if Beth keeps knocking him sideways like this.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, but there’s no real heat to it, and all it does is make Beth laugh again, softer now. She nudges his ankle with her foot, and, shit, now he _has_ to look at her, doesn’t he?

“Thanks for doin’ this with me,” she says, looking at him in a way that makes his tongue swell up like he’s having an allergic reaction or some shit. “And for the crossbow. I’ve been wantin’ one of my own for a while.” Her earnest expression turns mischievous, which is how Daryl knows she’s about to mouth off. “Prob’ly ’cause you always made it look so cool.”

Yeah, he called it. Daryl scoffs and nudges her with _his_ foot—but not, of course, hard enough to make her lose her balance. “Y’ain’t talkin’ no sense, girl. Shit ain’t _cool_. It’s survival.”

And it always has been for him, even before the virus flushed the world down the shitter. He spent the earliest years of his life up in tree blinds, as desperate to earn his dad’s fleeting approval as he was to help put food on the table. What he’s doing right now with Beth, it ain’t much different from that.

Except for the part where it _is_ , in every way that counts.

“Yeah,” Beth says quietly, smile fading a little. “I know.”

 _Ah, shit_. Daryl opens his mouth to apologize for being such a grouchy asshole, but he gets thoroughly sidetracked when Beth winces and rolls her shoulders. His fingers start up twitching again, and he thinks that if she turned around, he could work the tension out of her muscles right here—but no way in hell is he gonna risk putting his hands on her when they’re twenty feet off the ground with an agitated walker slamming itself against their tree’s trunk and scrabbling at the bark like it’s flesh it can rend.

But. Still.

“Hey.” Beth’s already looking at him, but he clears his throat anyway. Picks at his crossbow’s stock. “You, uh. You wanna call it quits for the day? Think ya need a break.”

Beth sticks out her chin. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’ve taken down that walker.”

Goddamn pigheaded ass. “Ain’t gonna be takin’ down shit in the shape you’re in. We been sittin’ up here for too damn long, an’ you ain’t used to firing that thing. Bet your back hurts like hell, too.”

The cagey look on Beth’s face is as good as an admission of guilt, but she ain’t ready to give up just yet, because of course she fucking isn’t. “What’d I gotta do to convince you to let me stay?” 

Is this girl for fucking real? “Ain’t nothin’ ya _can_ do, so ya might as well let me take the damn thing out an’—”

And what? Daryl’s not sure where he was going with that thought, because he can’t fucking think at all past the feeling of Beth’s soft mouth on his.

Wait, no. He _can_ think, sort of, but only in an endless loop of _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the FUCK._

It’s not just her mouth on his, although that’s obviously enough to fry his brain. It’s her hand braced on his thigh for balance, the coffee on her breath, the soft tickle of her eyelashes against his cheeks. It’s how fucking _warm_ she is, how close. It’s the fact that she made the first move because he was too chickenshit to do it himself, because she knew he needed her to do it _for_ him.

He might be teaching her how to wield a crossbow, but she’s teaching him a few things, too.

She stops kissing him before he can remember how to kiss her back, tipping her forehead against his jaw and pressing her lips to his cheek. The walker on the ground’s kicking up a real fuss now, like it’s pissed at them for ignoring it, but the damn thing can wait a little while longer as far as Daryl’s concerned.

“How ’bout that?” she asks him. He can feel the shape of her smile against his jaw. “Convincing enough for you?”

Jesus fucking Christ. “Dunno,” he manages. “Might hafta do it again ’fore it sticks.”

He lips part around a grin, and he leans in to wipe it off her face and finish what she started—because, shit, if she started it at all, that must mean he’s allowed to reciprocate—but she scoots back before he can make contact, and he looks on in a daze as she cocks her crossbow, sights down the stock, and sends a bolt clean through the walker’s skull. Knocks the thing flat on its ass, and, yeah. Daryl can relate.

But, hey. Wait a damn minute.

He turns a narrow-eyed look on Beth. “Think ya might be a lil’ _rusty_ , huh?”

Girl don’t even have the grace to look caught out. “What? I _am_. And I only missed on purpose, like, once.”

Yeah. He’s _sure_. “Hell you playin’ at, girl?”

Beth sinks her teeth into her lower lip, and Daryl kind of wants to sink _his_ teeth into it for her. “I just wanted to spend more time with you, I guess. Y’know. Alone. Not like anybody can interrupt us out here.”

Fuck. She’s been feeling _lonely_ , hasn’t she? And all ’cause Daryl’s been too much of a pussy to spend any extended amount of time with her in private.

He clears his throat, again. Gonna sound like he’s coming down with strep, rate he’s going. “Ain’t real romantic.” And, Jesus Christ, since when has he given a singular fuck about what’s _romantic_ and what ain’t?

Stupid question. Since Beth, that’s when.

Her smile starts to come back. It’s a little shyer than before, but what matters is that it’s there. “Then you’ll just have to take me someplace that _is_.” 

“Yeah? Like where?” Ain’t like he can make a reservation at some fancy-ass restaurant, not that he’d be inclined to even if he could. Doesn’t think Beth’d want him to, either.

“I’m sure you’ll think’a somethin’,” she says with way more confidence than Daryl feels before cupping his face in one hand and pulling him into another kiss.

A walker gurgles in the distance, but Daryl’s too busy sticking his tongue in Beth’s mouth to care. He’ll take it out in a minute—or, hell, maybe Beth will. In the meantime, he strokes Beth’s ring finger and thinks to himself that he just might have to go hunting for old quarters, after all.


End file.
